


Life's Greatest Miracle

by Artik (orphan_account)



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 01:46:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2292377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Artik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A highly cynical look on the world through the adventures, and gratuitous death scenes of one young man Lumen Cultor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Death of the Main Character

**Author's Note:**

> The following is a slight fanfiction. That is, it's not written to any specific fandom. Or by a random fan. It is, however, written in the setting of one of my roleplaying forums, "Shattered Hope: Days of Old", and uses a few characters from it. Lumen Cultor was created for the sole purpose of being the protagonist of this tale, and was created solely by myself. Other characters and settings will get their own disclaimers at the end of the chapter they first appear in, explaining who created them.

Lumen Cultor was a perfectly ordinary teenager for Twenty-First Century CE Earth. He spent several hours late at night typing away at his laptop, and several hours late in the day sleeping. When he wasn't writing fan-fiction for Doctor Who, he was scrolling listlessly through his various social media feeds, stopping occassionally to breathe a deep and condescending sigh at the stupidity of his friends and their failed philosophies. He didn't just watch Doctor Who. He watched The Colbert Report, along with other Comedy Central shows, such as @Midnight and The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. He loved Harry Potter and owned all the novels and movies. Yes, Lumen Cultor was a completely ordinary Twenty-First Century CE Earth nerd.

The problem was, he didn't live in the universe. He, according to our own perspective, was an alien. Not the aliens that American Republicans feel the need to excerise their Second Amendment Rights on, however. An alien from a bizarre planet in a positively strange galaxy, in a thoroughly weird universe, in a downright wacky dimension. He was a semi-proud resident of the Universe designated 'A', of the Dimension recorded as '42'. His planet was named, several centuries ago, as Roma. Lumen was enrolled in the Roman Academy of War and Science, as is the custom for Romans that are over the age of five-hundred-sixty-five. Messer Cultor was just about to turn six-hundred. Very near graduation.

Lumen blinked at his temporal flux analyzer. (Watch. It's an old wristwatch. Romans were rather pompous and decided to use fancy words for useless bits of technology dealing with the flow of time.) He tapped the simple glass cover and sighed. "It's useless," he decided. "Utter trash." He snarled slightly at the worn down, tempered hyper-bovine skin holding it to his wrist. (Okay, so maybe they use pompous and ridiculous terms for everything. It's just an old leather strap.) Finally, the watch chirped and Lumen struck his forehead with the palm of his hand. "I always beat you. You're the worst alarm I've ever seen." He spoke in a very even, soft tone, with no certain accent. At this, Lumen Cultor stood up from the deskchair in between his squeaky bed with a broken frame and his cluttered vanity dresser and put on his coat. No shoes. He hated shoes. He wanted to hurry back before the inter-dimensional feed streams the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson. He hates it when he misses that. Whatever planet Earth was, damn it was entertaining.  
At the age of fifty, a very limited stage of intelligence for the Roman people, Lumen showed his sentience by working out the idea that, in his words to his parents, "Isn't it a bit dangerous to watch television and read books from other universes and their various points in history?"

"As long as you don't watch the news," Ricardo Cultor said, puffing his cigar behind his newspaper. "They don't get through the filters, anyhow."

"But the late night talk shows often talk about the news," Lumen pointed out.

"They put enough jokes between the bits of news that it's harmless."

Lumen sighed and began several centuries worth of various dimensions' universes' planets' television.  
Lumen, that is, teenaged, six-century-old Lumen, got his mobile phone stuck in the door. He sighed. He forgot he had his earbuds in. He shrugged and disconnected them and threw them onto his bed, pocketing his phone, silencing the dulcet tones of Cecil Baldwin as Cecil Gershwin Palmer.  
Before exiting the room entirely, Lumen spun around and looked over his dresser, and opened a small, rectangular box. He grabbed a handful of cigarettes and stuck them in his grey trousers' pocket. He adjusted his crimson cloak and put the hood over his messy, dark brown hair. As he closed the fag box, he noted that he needed to roll some more soon.  
Lumen once watched an episode of the Colbert Report in which Stephen Colbert does a satire piece on a medical study explaining more health risks of using tobacco. Apparently, in Earth's universe, carcinogens weren't eradicated with molecular displacement, like they were in Forty-Two A. It really only took a few years for the Seraphim and Romans to work it out. I mean, honestly.  
Lumen walked about the house, only to find his family had already gone to bed. He shrugged and strode out the door, striking a match on the way out and lighting a cigarette. He took a long draw and floated off into the distance.

Oh. Right. Err, a lot of creatures in Forty-Two A have an inexplicable ability to use the energy of the universe that radiated from within themselves, and from the universe, to fly around and shoot out death beams from their hands and stuff. Very cool.  
The streetlights of Esquilinus cast an eerie, orange glow onto the alabaster marble of the many shops and temples in the Forum District, the municipal hub of commerce and trade and redundant synonyms and repetitive words that mean the same thing.  
Lumen was planning on having a really nice stroll. Perhaps he'd pick up some wine. Perhaps he'd visit a brothel. I mean, when in Rome. I'm sorry. I had to. Anyway, his plans were cut short, much like an aborted fetus, except nothing like that, really. There was absolutely no reason to mention that. Oh, well.

There was a loud booming noise overhead, followed by a nearby crash. He looked up at the warship soaring high over the city. "Who is it this time?", Lumen muttered, "Oh. Damn Aventines!"

Again, I should explain. Not so long ago, the planet of Roma was unified, and its borders encompassed almost all of civilised space. Then, everything changed when the barbarians attacked. They descended upon the planet, catching the gluttonous emperor off-guard and the people sedated by their wealth and fattening feasts. It was a bloodbath. Many Romans were made orphans in that raid. It would begin the decline of the Roman Empire. The seven major cities of Roma--- often referred to as the Seven Hills of Roma--- began blaming each other. Aventitus was the first to be blamed. "You are the Hill of military bases and have the main spaceport," the other six Hills cried, "You should have seen them coming--- and stopped them!" Aventitus shouted at Caelius, "Your factories were supposed to supplies us new ships and weapons! What happened to that?" Caelius shrugged and pointed at Viminalis, "They were supposed to deliver the new blueprints! They're the sciencey guys!" Viminalis muttered, "Well, err. Creative disarray! Why couldn't Palatinus fix it?! They have the emperor!" Palatinus tugged on its shirt collar, metaphorically, of course, and nodded at Capitolium, "The emperor can't do shit unless the Senate approves it." Capitolium blamed Esquilinus, "They don't have any special characteristic other than being the most populated city!" The other hills agreed. Except for Quirinalis, of course. It was a Wednesday, and everyone knows that Quirinalis only exists on Tuesdays and Fridays. And so, the Hills became warring city-states, and as the Romans fought Romans, the conquered planets shrugged off the imperial influence and declared their respective independences. Most of the planets got back on good terms with Roma, and didn't really hate them, except for Altstadt. Damn elves hold a grudge.

  
Lumen sighed and withdrew his plans to go on a stroll of Esquilinus. He heard the various temple bells go off in warning that a plasma bomb barrage had begun. Lumen inwardly muttered, "I knew I shouldn't have gotten out of bed today." He looked up and gulped as he saw the plasma shell heading right to the spot on which he was standing.

And then, he died.


	2. Chapter 2

One of the biggest questions in life is, "Where the hell will I go when I die?". This would just go to show how cynical most sentient lifeforms were. Moreover, it would launch several major religions across the dimensional planes--- from Pathik Ruud to Christianity to Pastafarianism to Atheism to Pangertenism (pang-err-ten-ism). That last one is the only important one. At least, for the duration of this paragraph. See, no matter the infinity of universes, there are still a finite amount of squiggles and sounds, and so, some languages may cross over. In fact, in the universe of 72M (That's yours, dear reader!), in the language of Javanese, Pangerten roughly translates to 'understanding'. This is pretty cool and a complete coincident, as in 42A, Pangertenism is the almighty, universal religion. Nearly everyone follows it. Although, certain theologians openly attack the religion as they study it, almost disillusioned by their work. One such author is the famed Arcturius de Roma, perhaps one of the most important individuals in 42A's history. But his important deeds haven't happened yet. Perhaps if you're patient, I'll tell that story as well. But now... now I tell you the story of our newest, most ordinary of protagonists, Lumen Cultor, and his most mundane of deaths.

Lumen Cultor groaned rather loudly for a dead kid. He blinked, rather too much for a dead kid. He pulled himself up, and looked around with his thoroughly dead eyes. He was in a dark, ordinary, and entirely drab room. It seemed to be made of purple bricks, lit dimly by a blue-flame torch. Lumen rubbed his head, running his fingers through his impractically long and unkempt hair. "H-hello," he called out reluctantly. What happened next made him wish he hadn't spoken up.

An iron door that he neglected to notice before swung open with a crash. Lumen could have felt the reverberation in his feet, had he not have been dead. A pig in a tuxedo grunted at Lumen and sat in a chair behind a desk that Lumen would have sworn just materialized. _Wait_ , Lumen blinked, _what the hell is that pink thing in a black suit?_

As if reading his thoughts, the swine snorted, in an overly stereotypical middle-aged man-voice, "It's a blue suit. Pinstripes. And I'm a pig. The name's Bekin. You will refer to me as Coordinator Rhind. And yes, they're both pork puns. This is my punishment. Stop laughing," he rattled the words off rehearsed and weary.

Lumen didn't laugh. He just kept scrunching his eyebrows at Rhind. "Sorry, what? Coordinator of what, exactly?"

Bekin Rhind rolled his eyes and sighed, "First time dying, eh, kid? It's all right, then, Mister..." he did _not_ rifle through papers on his desk. He just blinked at Lumen, as if harvesting the name from him. "Mister Lumen Luctus Cultor."

Lumen decided rather quickly that he did not, in fact, like this... Bekin Rhind fellow. He blinked, "Wait a minute. Dead? That can't be..."

Rhind sighed, "Wait for it," he muttered. Right on time, and fully expected by the well-trained Coordinator, the six-hundred year old Roman began shrieking and writhing on the floor in pain. "Happens the first time 'round." The pig could be considered, by you, 72Mers, to have a thick cockney accent. "You're feeling the pain of death. Literally the last feeling you had before dying."

The pig had several minutes, he was sure of it. So, he lit a cigar and read his copy of the _Animal Farm_ , smiling wickedly at certain lines. He glanced up in time to see a gasping Lumen flop himself back up, into a chair he hadn't remembered existing. " _I'm dead_ ," he shouted, slightly apalled. "I _died_!"

Rhind put the book down and snuffed out his cigar, not bothering to look up or sound sincere while saying, "Yeah, yeah. Happens to the best of us. 'Course, I'm dead. And they turned me into a pig. I _wanted_ to Coordinate the Muslims, freak the shit out of them, but they wouldn't let me."

"They?", Lumen asked, trying to wrap his head around it all.

"The God Complex. A council of gods, one from each pantheon. They assign us Coordinators to our jurisdiction. I'm part of the workshift that takes in the members of Dimensions 0-50, Universes A-L, and Parallels beginning and ending in odd numbers with repeating decimals."

Lumen cough slightly, trying his hardest to process this all. "Sorry, but... Coordinator?"

Rhind sighed heavily, flexing his snout at Lumen, "Coordinators are here to lead the dead to their preferred afterlife. Or, whichever you deserve. It all depends on your religion. Religion?"

Lumen took a second before he realized that Rhind was asking him which he fell under. He opened his mouth to say, but Rhind beat him to the punch.

"Ah. Pangertenism. Right. Got a lot of those a century ago. Well, for you, it was a century."

Lumen blinked. "Sorry, wh--" his eyes flashed up in understanding, and he gave a soft, "Oh. Right. The... the war."

In the year 1353 of the First Era of Universe Forty-Two A, that is--- ninety-seven years before Lumen's death--- there was the Great War. The fledgling empires of Forty-Two A stood together to fight off invaders from another universe. The Serians. The battles were hard enough as it were, but leading the assault was a seemingly impossible warrior. Serak Tukesh. He was damn near unbeatable, and he wiped out an entire legion of warriors from various races sent to kill him. All but seven of the warriors were slain by him. These Legendary Seven were able to fend him off and then he vanished. Of the the survivors was that one man again. Arcturius de Roma. His first deed as a hero. The first of many to come.

"Anyway," Rhind cleared his throat, a noise suspiciously akin to an oink, "You're a Pangertenist, so that makes it easy."  
  
"Easy?", Lumen blinked.

Rhind ignored him. "Two options." He pulled two sheets of parchment from thin air, "One. You can go to the Eternal Graveyard." He glanced at Lumen and could tell he was about to start blinking and asking questions. "It's the standard afterlife for Pangertenists. It's just a dark world where the warriors and/or philosophers get to go." He looked Lumen over, "You're neither, but the Fates tell me that you will be. So, benefits."

Lumen piped up, "Sorry. What? If I'm dead, how am I to be a warrior and/or philosopher?"

  
"Spoilers," the pig muttered. Lumen wasn't sure if that was a _Who_ reference or not. He had a feel that he didn't voice his curiosity. "Anyway. The other option. You can answer me a question. If you get it right, then you basically become a god."

"Er... I... o- alright," Lumen stammered, "What's the question?"

"What," Rhind started with a sense of renewed self-importance, "is the Greatest Miracle?"

Lumen thought it over, not wanting to cock it up. "Er." He stood up and paced around the dark box of a room, muttering to himself, and tapping his skull. Finally, he jumped up a bit in understanding. "I've got it," he shouted excitedly. "Life!"

Rhind looked at the second piece of parchment. "No. Not even close."

"Wh-what?" Lumen sighed.

Rhind just looked at him, face wrinkled, nose upturned. He put his hoove on the side of his head and sighed. "Look, kid... there are hundreds of dimensions. They each have thouands of universes. They each have a billion trillion planets. Each one has millions of species. I'd hardly call such a commonplace occurance a miracle. You'll have to dig deeper. Good luck next time 'round."

"Next time?" Lumen tried to stand, but his chair vanished, and the floor below it, too. He was falling, falling, falling. It was dark, impossible to see. And then he hit the ground.

 


End file.
